The Italian Girl (60 page)

‘But I thought—’

‘Yes, I’m sure you’ve been told I have his death certificate. And I’m simply a sad and perhaps mad mother who is unable to accept her beloved son’s passing.’

Ari shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I have heard of the story,’ he admitted.

‘I know what my family think, and what you almost certainly think too,’ Anahita stated firmly. ‘But believe me, there are more things in heaven and earth than can be explained in a man-made document. There is a mother’s heart, and her soul, which tells her things that cannot be ignored. And I will tell you now that my son is not dead.’

‘Nani, I believe you.’

‘I understand that you do not.’ Anahita shrugged. ‘But I don’t mind. However, it’s partly my fault that my family don’t believe me. I’ve never explained to them what happened all those years ago.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because . . .’ Anahita gazed out of the window to her beloved mountains. She gave a slight shake of her head. ‘It isn’t right for me to tell you now. It’s all in there.’ She pointed a finger at the pages in Ari’s hands. ‘When the moment is right for you – and you will know when that is – perhaps you will read my story. And then, you will decide for yourself whether to investigate it.’

‘I see,’ said Ari, but he didn’t.

‘All I ask of you is that you share its contents with no one in our family until I die. It is my life I entrust to you, Ari. As you know –’ Anahita paused – ‘sadly, my time on this earth is running out.’

Ari stared at her, confused as to what his great-grandmother wished him to do. ‘You want me to read this and then make investigations as to the whereabouts of your son?’ he clarified.

‘Yes.’

‘But where would I start?’

‘In England, of course.’ Anahita stared at him. ‘You would retrace my footsteps. Everything you need to know you now hold in the palms of your hands. And besides, your father tells me you run some kind of computer company. You, of all people, have the webbing at your disposal.’

‘You mean the “web”?’ Ari held back a chuckle.

‘Yes, so I’m sure it would only take you a few seconds to find the place where it all began,’ Anahita concluded.

Ari followed his great-grandmother’s eye-line out to the mountains beyond the window. ‘It’s a beautiful view,’ he said, for want of something better to say.

‘Yes, and it’s why I stay here, even though my daughter disapproves. One day soon, I’ll travel upwards, way beyond those peaks, and I’ll be happy for it. I will see many people there whom I’ve mourned in my life. But of course, as it stands –’ Anahita’s gaze landed on her great-grandson once more – ‘not the one I wish to see most of all.’

‘How do you know he’s still alive?’

Anahita’s eyes reverted to the skyline, then she closed them wearily. ‘As I said, it’s all in my story.’

‘Of course.’ Ari knew he was dismissed. ‘So, I’ll let you rest, Nani.’

Anahita nodded. Ari stood up, made a
pranaam
, then kissed his great-grandmother on each cheek.

‘Goodbye, and I’m sure I’ll see you soon,’ he commented as he walked towards the door.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered.

As Ari made to leave the room, he turned back suddenly on instinct. ‘Nani, why me? Why not give this story to your daughter, or my father?’

Anahita stared at him. ‘Because, Ari, the story you hold in your hands might be my past, but it is also your future.’

Ari left the room feeling drained. Walking through the bungalow, he made for the coat rack by the front door, underneath which his briefcase sat. Stowing the yellowing pages inside it, he continued into the drawing room. His grandmother, Muna, approached him immediately.

‘Why did she want to see you?’ she asked him.

‘Oh,’ Ari replied airily, ‘she doesn’t believe her son is dead and wants me to go and investigate in England.’ He rolled his eyes for full effect.

‘Not again!’ Muna rolled her own eyes equally dramatically. ‘Listen, I can show you the death certificate. Her son died when he was about three. Please, Ari,’ Muna laid a hand on her grandson’s shoulder, ‘take no notice. She’s been going on about this for years. Sadly, it’s an old woman’s fantasy, and certainly not worth wasting your precious time with. Take my word for it. I’ve listened to it for much longer than you. Now,’ his grandmother smiled, ‘come and have a last glass of champagne with your family.’

Ari sat on the last plane from Bagdogra back to Mumbai. He tried to concentrate on the figures in front of him, but Anahita’s face kept floating into his vision. Surely his grandmother was right when she’d told him Anahita was deluded? And yet, there were things his great-grandmother had said when they were alone – things she couldn’t have known about him, which had unsettled him. Perhaps there was something in her story . . . maybe he would take the time to glance through the manuscript when he arrived back home.

At Mumbai airport, even though it was past midnight, Bambi, his current girlfriend, was there at Arrivals to greet him. The rest of the night was spent pleasantly in his apartment overlooking the Arabian Sea, enjoying her slim young body.

The following morning, he was already late for his meeting, and as he packed his briefcase with the documents he needed, he removed the papers Anahita had given him.

One day I will have time to read it
, he thought, as he shoved the manuscript into the bottom drawer of his desk and hurriedly left his apartment.

Author’s Note on

The Italian Girl

I originally wrote the story of Rosanna and Roberto seventeen years ago and it was published as
Aria
in 1996, under my old ‘pen’ name, Lucinda Edmonds. Last year, some of my publishers asked me about my backlist. I told them all the books were currently out of print, but they asked for some copies. Into my cellar I ventured, and pulled out the eight books I’d written all those years ago. They were covered in mouse-droppings and spiders’ webs and smelt of damp, but I sent them off, explaining that I had been very young then and I completely understood if they wanted to bin them then and there. To my surprise, the reaction was incredibly positive and they asked me whether I would like to re-publish them.

This meant that I had to begin reading them too, and as any writer who looks back on their work from the past, I opened the first page of
Aria
with trepidation. It was a bizarre experience, because I couldn’t remember much of the story, so I became involved just as a reader does, turning the pages faster and faster to find out what happens next. I felt the book needed some updating and re-editing, but the story and the characters were all there. So I set to work for a few weeks and the finished result is
The Italian Girl
. I hope you enjoy it.

Lucinda Riley, January 2014

Praise for
The Light Behind the Window

‘A fast-paced, suspenseful story, flitting between the present day and World War II narrative . . . Brilliant escapism’

Red

‘A beautifully written book that secures Riley’s authorial status and proves that her golden penmanship is no mere fluke . . . This is the perfect literary novel to move those readers who wish for something more fulfilling than chicklit, yet just as entertaining, witty and heart-stopping. The language is dramatic yet truthful and Riley has such a delicate touch with mystery and intrigue that it’s difficult to predict where the plot is going . . . Riley’s descriptive nuances are so evocative a TV drama is bound to be imminent. A literal and literary page-turner’

WeLoveThisBook.co.uk

‘Just sink in and wallow’

Kate Saunders,
Saga

‘Yet again, I have been totally entertained by another great story that is well written with an intricate plot that is multi-layered but tied together so well . . . I became really emotionally attached to these characters . . . This novel really is a joy to read, expertly woven together and mixing social history with family dramas and love and relationships – the perfect blend’

RandomThingsThroughMyLetterbox.blogspot.co.uk

Praise for
The Girl on the Cliff

‘[Lucinda Riley] manipulates the strands of her plot with skill’

Independent on Sunday

‘An emotionally charged saga . . . Riley is a writer to watch’

Sunday Express

‘Lucinda Riley knows how to write a captivating novel . . . it’s layered, it’s intricate, it’s just brilliant . . . a truly brilliant read’

Chick Lit Reviews

‘[A] haunting and engrossing new novel . . . superb characterization, atmospheric locations and a well-paced narrative keep the pages turning and the imagination in thrall . . . perceptive, warm and exquisitely wrought,
The Girl on the Cliff
is another triumph for a talented author’

Burnley Express

‘An enchanting and mysterious story of hope after loss, populated with warm characters’

Candis

Praise for
Hothouse Flower

‘Atmospheric, heart-rending and multi-layered’

Grazia

‘Romantic, revealing and rich in heart-rending emotion and atmospheric detail . . . could well be the pick of Richard and Judy’s spring bunch’

Lancashire Post

‘The parallel stories have many layers, and the characters are touching and very humane, which makes this page-turner a perfect beach read’

Elle

‘This romance novel conjures up the past in an imaginative way’

Star

‘It’s a great story, full of atmosphere’

Bookbag

The Italian Girl

Lucinda Riley was born in Ireland and wrote her first novel at twenty-four.
Hothouse Flower
was a Richard and Judy Book Club choice and became a number one international bestseller. Since then, her novels have gone on to sell over three million copies worldwide and her books have been translated into twenty-six languages. She lives in Norfolk and the south of France with her husband and four children.

Also by Lucinda Riley

Hothouse Flower

The Girl on the Cliff

The Light Behind the Window

The Midnight Rose

First published as
Aria
1996 by Simon & Schuster

This electronic edition published 2014 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-5708-0

Copyright © Lucinda Edmonds 1996
Revised edition copyright © Lucinda Riley 2014

The right of Lucinda Riley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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